


Desperate Measures

by Hrunting_License



Series: A Bending, Breaking Wheel [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Child Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Underage, Improper Use of Ósanwe, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Parent/Child Incest, Rape By Proxy, Sexual Coercion, Sibling Incest, Size Difference, Threesome - M/M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28406073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hrunting_License/pseuds/Hrunting_License
Summary: "I'm your older brother, Káno. That means it's my duty to protect you."It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Relationships: Background Maedhros/Fingon, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo/Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo/Maglor | Makalaurë/Fëanor | Curufinwë
Series: A Bending, Breaking Wheel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103060
Comments: 12
Kudos: 54





	1. My poor heart will only surrender now

**Author's Note:**

> Uses Y.T. time (so if it says "10 years" that would be about 100 years as measured after the sun rises); all situations depicted are between elves that have reached majority.

Maitimo had always been his protector. That was one of the few constants of Macalaurë’s life. As long as he could remember, Maitimo had been there to pluck him out of mud puddles, awkward situations, even bad dreams.

“If anything bad ever happens to you,” he had often said, holding Macalaurë close, kissing the top of his head, “or anyone is ever cruel to you, come and find me. I’ll stop them.”

Macalaurë, lip wobbling from the pain of a skinned knee from falling out of a tree that he’d wakened with his songs, nodded tearfully. “And what if I cannot find you?” he’d asked. “Or what if someone is cruel to _you_?”

Maitimo had tugged on one of his braids. “Trust me to look after myself. I’m your elder brother. Protecting you is my duty.”

He _had_ needed a protector, more than once. Sometimes it was from older nobles, who were jealous of his voice, his lineage, and who thought it was funny to muss his robes and hair before performances. A single glare from Maitimo was enough to chill them and send them running. Sometimes it was from his own mind, and visions that showed him darkness and blood. It took more than a glare then, it took a long hour of keeping him occupied with drawings and riddles and games, but by the end of it, he was laughing.

As they grew older, sometimes, he needed to be protected from his father. Fëanáro grew proud and angry towards most, even Grandfather Finwë. Once, Macalaurë sang a note too strong, and a strange new power quivered through the sound. A window shattered, and his father’s face, dark with rage, came around the corner.

“Sorry, Father,” Maitimo said immediately, catching Macalaurë’s frightened look. Maitimo jumped up, and fetched a broom. “I was careless.”

Fëanáro glared at him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re old enough to be less clumsy than that. Come and work in the forge--leave that for the servants, you are no drudge.”

Maitimo shot Macalaurë a secret, encouraging smile, but Macalaurë saw it fade as he turned away, following his father to the forge he loathed working in. Maitimo was skilled enough in gemcraft, but it was never good enough for their father, who thought he should focus more on his linguistics, more on the creative aspects of smithcraft. Maitimo smiled, but Macalaurë knew it would be a long day of work for him, at a subject he never quite understood.

That night, he snuck into Maitimo’s room, and without asking, took Maitimo’s hands in his own and started massaging them. “You always get so sore in the forge,” he said gently, and Maitimo smiled.

“Thank you, Káno,” he said gently. “Come, you can sleep in here with me tonight.”

“But I’m far too old,” Macalaurë laughed. “Nearly at my majority.”

“Nonsense.” Maitimo flopped down onto the bed, and Macalaurë let himself be held. There was a strange, mottled bruise on the inside of Maitimo’s forearm, and Macalaurë frowned.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“Mm? Oh, yes.”

“How?”

“Hush, Káno, I’m trying to sleep.”

Maitimo squeezed him tight enough that he squeaked, and he subsided. He had an odd feeling that after working with their father all day, Maitimo might have needed the comfort more than Macalaurë did.

The bruises had faded by the next time Macalaurë made a mistake his brother had to save him from. He was teasing Moryo, seeing what kind of songs would make him blush and cry, taking turns with Tyelkormo to tweak his ears and take his toy puzzles. Moryo let out a final angry wail, and then Macalaurë and Tyelkormo heard Fëanáro’s voice, harsh and cutting. “Kánafinwë! Turcafinwë! Come in here!”

Macalaurë sighed, and trudged into his father’s study. Only when he entered did he see that Tyelkormo had turned and fled, likely taking to the woods until their father’s wrath had cooled.

Fëanáro stood, tall and imposing with a scowl on his face that seemed more familiar than his smile, these days. “Do you think I have nothing to do that cannot be interrupted?” he demanded. “Why don’t you come and finish my work, then? Since what you are doing is _so_ much more important.”

“I’m sorry, Atar,” Macalaurë mumbled, looking down at his feet.

“Speak up.” His father’s voice cracked like a whip, the heat of his anger a tangible thing.

Macalaurë jumped, eyes gone wide. He’d never heard his father’s voice like that, except through the walls. “I, I’m sorry, Atar,” he stammered, feeling suddenly hot under his clothing with nerves. “I didn’t mean to distract you.”

“Don’t stammer when you talk, speak as is right.”

Macalaurë jumped, and nodded. “Sorry, Atar. I--“

Fëanáro’s hand shot out, and grabbed the front of his robes, yanking him suddenly close. Macalaurë let out a nervous little yelp, and bit it down when that seemed to make his father even angrier. Fëanáro grabbed his arm, hard enough that his thumb dug into the sensitive flesh there. “Quiet. You realize why I’m so angry, don’t you? You know how busy I am. And with your mother always away, you must know my temper flares.”

Some nameless fear crawled up Macalaurë’s spine. He swallowed hard, not sure what to say. “I...yes, of course.”

“Have you no better words for your father, Káno?” The hand left his robes, and came up to cup his chin, his father’s thumb brushing over his bottom lip. “Where is the golden voice I named you for now?”

The door opened. Macalaurë flinched away, not wanting to be seen like this, even if he wasn’t sure why humiliation coursed hot and bitter through his veins.

It was Maitimo. His cheeks were flushed, as if he’d run there, and Macalaurë thought he saw a flash of Turko’s fair hair behind him, before Maitimo closed the door behind himself. His eyes met Macalaurë’s for a brief flash, and Macalaurë had no words for the naked emotion he saw there.

Then it was gone. Maitimo had always been the best of them at hiding his true feelings. He stood taller even than their father, perfectly put-together in his long golden robes, and took a step forward. “Atar,” he said, and his voice was different than Macalaurë had ever heard it, low and subservient. “If--you should have sent for me.”

“Go away, Nelyo.” Fëanáro sounded intent, like when he was working on one of his new projects. He was standing very close, close enough that Macalaurë could smell his breath. He half-expected to smell wine, but no, his father was sober. That was somehow more terrifying. “Your brother was just making me an apology.”

“I said I was sorry!” Macalaurë’s voice spiked with nerves, a far cry from his usual melodiousness, and he saw Fëanáro’s face darken with anger.

“You think that was enough?” he demanded, and the hand dropped from his face, down to his robes again. It was a long moment before Macalaurë felt what he was doing--not grabbing him, but pushing his robes apart. “You’ll--“

Maitimo’s hands were suddenly on him, large and strong on his arms, yanking him back. Fëanáro’s eyes blazed, but Maitimo put himself between him and Macalaurë, and did not move to the side. “Atar--“

Fëanáro grabbed Maitimo by the arms, and Macalaure realized with a sudden sick horror where his brother had gotten those bruises. “You think you can tell me what to do? You think yourself above me, Nelyo?”

“No, Atar, of course not. You--“ Maitimo nearly choked on the next words, his face gone as red as his hair. “You should certainly punish me, if you think that is what I was doing.”

“Maitimo,” Macalaure whispered, and Maitimo shot him a quick, angry gaze back over his shoulder.

“ _Get out,_ ” he mouthed, but Fëanáro’s hand shot out, slapping him across the face.

“Don’t you want him to stay?” his father asked, and there was a strange note in his voice. His hand dropped down again, but Maitimo didn’t protest when his robes were pushed off of his shoulders to pool on the floor, leaving him in leggings and tunic. “Your sweet, favorite brother, you were quick enough to think of him the other day.”

“No, that wasn’t--“

“When I asked you,” Fëanáro continued, and his fingers trailed down, pinching one of Maitimo’s nipples through his tunic, making him bite back a sound, “if you would prefer I make use of him instead.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Maitimo’s voice was hard. “Atar, please, let it be just you and me.” He leaned forward, and pressed his lips against Fëanáro’s.

Macalaurë wasn’t sure if he made a sound. His hands flew to his mouth to try and muffle it. Never had he thought to see a sight like that in his life, something so twisted, Maitimo actually--

But was he?

Macalaurë _knew_ his brother. He knew the lines of tension in his shoulders, and knew when Maitimo was forced to do something for their father he didn’t want to do.

When he was protecting Macalaurë.

 _No_ , he thought, but could not find the bravery to say it aloud.

Maitimo pulled away from the kiss, and stripped off his tunic, leaving him in only his leggings. “Let me send Káno away,” he murmured, and Macalaurë watched in disgust as his brother slid a hand down, cupping and rubbing between their father’s thighs. “I’ll--I’ll say whatever you want me to say, this time, I swear.”

Fëanáro sneered, then rolled his eyes, as if he were long-suffering. “Don’t act so put-upon, Nelyo. Be honest.”

“I’m being honest.”

“Is it that you don’t want him to see you this way?” Fëanáro asked, and reached down, gripping Maitimo’s buttocks through his leggings. “Or that you don’t want to share what’s in your hand?”

Macalaurë heard his brother’s voice hitch, but couldn’t see his face, hidden by the fall of red around his face. “Yes. That.” His voice didn’t stutter. Macalaurë thought his own would have.

“Say it properly. You said you’d say whatever I wanted, didn’t you? Stay put, Káno,” Fëanáro said harshly, when he started to edge towards the door, and he froze. “Your brother seems to think you don’t deserve to be punished. What do you think?”

Macalaurë felt tears prick his eyes. “Atar, please, Maitimo hasn’t--“

Maitimo turned, suddenly fierce, and shoved him back against the door, knocking the wind out of him. When he caught his breath, Maitimo was pressed body to body with their father, his hand thrust down Fëanáro’s leggings. “What do you want?” he was asking, his voice low, urgent. “Do you want me on my knees? Or over your desk?”

Macalaurë felt bile rise in his throat. How many times? For how long? How long had Maitimo been putting himself between his brothers and his father?

“Take them off.” Fëanáro nodded towards Maitimo’s leggings, and Maitimo complied. Macalaurë tried to look away, but couldn’t manage, as Fëanáro’s hand came up, cupping and stroking again. “Over my desk.”

Maitimo pulled away, keeping his face turned away from Macalaurë, and bent himself over the huge oaken desk, resting his weight on his elbows. Macalaurë had never realized how many freckles he had. His back was beautiful. Seeing their father run a possessive hand down it made Macalaurë’s skin crawl.

“Spread your legs.” Fëanáro sounded less harsh now, more eager, his breath quickening as Maitimo shifted, parting his thighs. “Farther than that.”

“Atar--“

“Or should Kanafinwë take your place?”

Maitimo spread his legs immediately, so far apart it looked uncomfortable, and unbearably lewd.

“Now.” Fëanáro’s voice quickened, and he reached down, stroking his own cock. Macalaurë’s mind made odd, detached little notes, comparing sizes and body types, unsure why. “Tell me. You know what I want to hear.”

Maitimo mumbled something against the desk. Fëanáro’s hand shot out again, cracking against Maitimo’s buttocks, making him jump. A bright red handprint formed, and Fëanáro said, “If you’re that embarrassed, Nelyo, perhaps you should ask Káno. Maybe he’s the one you’d prefer to--“

“Please fuck me.” Maitimo’s voice was toneless, as if it were coming from a long way away. Macalaurë couldn’t tell if that was because of how Maitimo said it, or because his own ears were ringing oddly. “I want you inside me.”

Fëanáro dipped his fingers into a pot on his desk that Macalaurë had never noticed before. Then he slid his hand down between Maitimo’s spread legs, and two of his fingers disappeared, shoved into Maitimo’s hole.

Macalaurë felt tears on his cheeks. His heart felt too tight. His hands clenched, so tight he heard a soft popping sound. _Coward_ , he called himself, but could not make himself move. Each time he did, it was worse for Maitimo, wasn’t it?

“Say it,” Fëanáro said again, his voice lower now, his fingers thrusting into Maitimo’s hole harder, making Maitimo grunt, his fingers scrabbling at the smooth surface of the desk. “Don’t--make me work so hard for it, it wouldn’t have to _hurt_ so much if you were less stubborn.”

Macalaurë saw Maitimo close his eyes. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Fëanáro cursed, and drew out his fingers. “You think you’re above this,” he said, voice nearly shaking with his wrath. He bent over Maitimo, and Macalaurë knew this was his last chance, his last chance to do _something_ , his last chance not to know what it looked like when his father took his brother.

Maitimo’s eyes opened, and he held Macalaurë’s gaze. _It’s all right, Káno_ , came the thought into his mind, and Maitimo’s lips twitched, the ghost of an encouraging smile. _You don’t have to watch. I won’t think less of you. Just close your eyes._

He tried.

He tried not to look. He closed his eyes, and heard Fëanáro grunt. Somehow they were open again, though, or maybe he was Seeing. He didn’t know, couldn’t feel what his body was doing, and it didn’t matter, _he_ didn’t matter, because Maitimo was the one with his face screwed up in pain, Maitimo was the one gripping white-knuckled at the edge of the desk, Maitimo was the one their father was fucking into with sharp snaps of his hips. One of Fëanáro’s hands came up, fisting in thick red hair, pulling Maitimo’s back into a tight bow.

“You’re very tight today,” Fëanáro murmured, loud enough that Macalaurë could not help but hear. “So, you do like putting on a show, hmm?”

“N-no--“

Fëanáro bent, and buried his face in that hair, inhaling deeply. Then he let go, and gripped Maitimo’s hips for a series of brutal, pounding thrusts. “Or can you just not help it? You _need_ this.”

His voice was raw, wild, something Macalaurë hardly recognized. “Tell me. You said you’d say whatever I _wanted_ , didn’t you? As long--as I left--Káno--alone? Little _martyr_ , aren’t you?”

“Atar,” Maitimo choked out, turning to bury his face in the desk.

“Stop _hiding_ ,” Fëanáro snarled, and fetched another harsh slap to his buttocks. “Why--are you--so _stubborn_ \--always make me--be cruel--when you _know_ you--want this--“

“Atar, please--“

“ _Now_ , Nelyo. Or--“ Fëanáro looked to the side, and for the first time in long, horrible, terrifying minutes, his gaze fell on Macalaurë.

He had always had an active imagination. That was what the Seers said. It was why his dreams, both good and bad, were so vivid that he often had to craft them into song. He wished now that he did not, that he could not imagine his father’s hand in his hair, the hard wood of the desk against his chest, the biting grip of his father’s fingers on his hip. He could _not_ imagine the obscene stretch of his father’s cock inside of him, and felt his gorge rise again at the very thought.

Fëanáro’s gaze raked up and down him, and Macalaurë thought his _fëa_ might truly flee to Mandos. “He’s older than you were,” his father said thoughtfully, and shoved in cruelly, making Maitimo’s long legs kick feebly against the desk. “Perhaps when I’m done with you--“

“Fuck me,” Maitimo said, and the words sounded as though they were ripped from him. Macalaurë knew a performance when he heard one. “I need, I need it.”

Fëanáro’s gaze dropped, and Macalaurë shivered with relief, then felt even sicker at his own cowardice for feeling it. “What do you need, Nelyo?” he asked, and there was a cloying, almost indulgent note in the words.

Macalaurë saw Maitimo’s eyes screwed up, dripping tears. “I need your big cock inside me,” he panted, as if he’d done it a hundred times before. “I need--to be fucked, _please_ \--“

“...That’s _better_.”

Fëanáro reached around, and took Maitimo’s cock in hand. “Look how hard you are, Nelyo. I’m just giving you what you need, aren’t I?”

“Y-yes,” Maitimo ground out though his clenched teeth. “I need it.”

“Go on.”

Maitimo let out a soft, sad sound. Macalaurë tried for a second to reach out with ósanwë, and felt it coldly rejected, dashed against the high stone walls of Maitimo’s mind.

But either Maitimo was simply too tired to continue resisting, or too afraid of what would happen if he did. “I need to come, please, Atar, please, make me come--“

“Tell me to come inside you.”

“Come inside me, please, f-fill me, I need to be...filled--“

Fëanáro’s thrusts sped up, and his hand flew again, the sound of the slap loud in the small room. “Slut,” he grunted, and slammed in hard, burying his cock as deep as he could get, letting out a long, drawn-out, bestial noise. His hand stilled on Maitimo’s cock, changing to slow, firm strokes. “Nice and full, now, aren’t you? That’s what you need, isn’t it, Nelyo?”

“Please,” Maitimo said, and he sounded exhausted. “Just let me go.”

“You mean, please let me come.”

Tears coursed down Maitimo’s face. “Please,” he tried again, but his voice faltered, and then he was shuddering, spilling into his father’s hand.

“...There,” Fëanáro said, and wiped his hand onto Maitimo’s back, then pulled out. Maitimo shifted weakly, trying to get his legs under himself, like a newborn colt who couldn’t yet figure out how to walk. “Was that really so difficult? You always make it harder on yourself than it has to be.”

“Yes, Atar.” Maitimo’s voice was toneless again.

Fëanáro adjusted his own robes, then strode to the door, and pinned Macalaurë there as easy as as if he were a moth on a pin. “He’s much better behaved with you here,” he said, almost conversationally, and chucked Macalaurë under the chin. “I’ll remember that.”

Then he opened the door, and was gone.

The silence stretched. Macalaurë tried to think of what even a wordsmith could say, as Maitimo dragged himself up, not looking at his brother as he dressed himself. Macalaurë nearly protested when he put his robes on, woven gold covering freckles and mess altogether, but bit that back.

And Maitimo, somehow, gathered himself enough to give him one of those gentle, protective smiles. There was even something of triumph in it. “Come on, Káno,” he said, and if there was pain when he walked, he didn’t show it. “Shall we have supper?”

“Maitimo...” What could he say? How many times had Maitimo rucked up what was left of his dignity, after _that_ , and sat down to supper with the rest of them? “I’m sorry,” he blurted, and then he could not stop. “I’m sorry, it was my fault, you shouldn’t have--“

“I’m your elder brother,” Maitimo interrupted. He reached up a hand, and tugged on Macalaurë’s braid, as he had ever done. “Protecting you is my duty.”

“But--“

“Supper,” Maitimo said firmly, and gripped his arm, steering him out of a room that he would never visit again, if he could help it. “I’ll meet you there in a moment. And...” For just a moment, his eyes were haunted. “Never let the others know.”

Macalaurë scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. “If...if he looks to them someday,” he said hesitantly. “I’m their big brother, too.”

“No,” Maitimo said, and his hand tightened, his voice sharp. “If--it will be me. Always. I’ll have it no other way.”

“But--“

“You must _always_ come and find me,” Maitimo said, and shook him until he agreed.

And they had supper, and Maitimo told them stories of their cousins behaving poorly, and by the end of it, even Macalaurë was laughing, and there was pride in Maitimo’s eyes.


	2. When I got you right where I want you

“Just for an hour,” Findekáno coaxed, and his eyes were laughing. “What harm could it do?”

He was sitting on the windowsill of Maitimo’s room. When Maitimo sat there he looked pensive and dignified, but Findekáno’s legs did not quite reach the floor, something which seemed to trouble him not a bit. Macalaurë plucked a slow, teasing melody on his harp, something low that got swiftly higher and higher, building to an obvious conclusion but refusing to reach it, until some of the shadows fled from Maitimo’s eyes, and he grinned.

“One hour,” he relented, and tugged on a pair of boots. “Only because you make a very excellent point.”

“The point that I have not seen Laurelin’s light in your hair for far too long?” Findekáno asked, and turned his face up, letting himself be gently kissed.

Maitimo cupped Findekáno’s face with both hands, holding him as carefully as he would a new-hatched chick, as if afraid even the tiniest brush of his fingers might bruise and mar. “The point,” he said, so low Macalaurë could hardly hear him, “that I cannot refuse you anything, beloved cousin.”

Findekáno looked as if he were in a world all their own, where nothing existed but Maitimo’s elegant hands and sweet words. He obviously forced himself to keep breathing, and turned to Macalaurë, still perched on his favorite chair near the bed. “We’ll just be at the pool, where the river is clear and deep near the mews. You don’t mind making his excuses?”

“If you do not go, I will mind being kicked out of my favorite chair,” Macalaurë informed them both, and was rewarded with twin blushes. Then they were gone, scampering out of the window like children, and Macalaurë heard Findekáno’s bright, silvery laugh as they hit the ground.

He relaxed back into his chair-- _his_ chair, for all that it was Maitimo’s room, and not even Findekáno ever thought to steal its use from him--and strummed to himself, composing a song that had come to him in a dream. He went over the chords five, six times, changing them subtlety with each repetition, until they sounded the way he liked.

Then the door opened, and he sat up at attention, eyes wide, as his father scanned the room, frowning. “Where’s Nelyo?”

Belatedly, Macalaurë realized that if he were going to promise to make excuses for his brother, he should probably decide what those excuses were. Fëanáro’s temper, and his penchant for going through doors without pause or knock, were the main reasons Maitimo and Findekáno took to the nearby woods when their cousin visited. “He’s--he just went for a walk,” he said lamely, trying to cast around for a location that was neither easy to check nor incriminating.

Fëanáro’s brows furrowed into a scowl. “He has my sealing wax,” he muttered, and entered Maitimo’s room, rifling through the desk in the corner. Macalaurë held his breath until the wax was located, and his father left again. Then he sighed at the crisis narrowly averted, and relaxed back into his chair.

For the most part, he had been able to put aside his memories of what he’d seen that night in his father’s study. He knew it had happened. Maitimo knew he had seen. They did not speak of it, even once, after that night. Fëanáro had never spoken of it, and after that night, Macalaurë had never seen his father act strangely or inappropriately.

( _Almost_ never.

Twice.

Once he had entered the kitchen, and seen Fëanáro’s hand on the back of Maitimo’s neck, and walked out silently, not _sure_ , but afraid to look.

Once he had heard a strangled noise from the study, a body hitting the door, and steered little Morifinwë in the other direction, promising him a story of a very clever prince who lived by his wits.

On those days, he had gone to Maitimo’s room when the curtains were drawn, and sat in his favorite chair, and played some of Findaráto’s favorite songs, the ones he usually found too silly and sweet to bother with. Maitimo never acted different, but he smiled at the songs, and lay still in his bed as he listened.)

Macalaurë suddenly sat bolt upright, and shoved his harp onto the bed, dashing out of the room as something occurred to him. He was just in time; Fëanáro was leaving his study, a newly-sealed scroll in hand. “Father, I’ll take the letter,” he said, trying not to sound breathless or desperate.

Fëanáro blinked at him. “The mews aren’t far from the forge,” he said, frowning. “It’s fine.”

“Still, let me take it.” Macalaurë thrust his hand out, and tried to snatch the scroll away.

Fëanáro held it out of his reach, and his brow furrowed. “Why?”

“I could use the fresh air, a chance to stretch my legs,” Macalaurë lied. “I’ll be swift, and you can go directly to the forge.”

His father was quick, though, and suspicion flared in his gaze. His eyes flicked to the door, and beyond it, to the path up to the mews, which Macalaurë knew full well overlooked the little pool that Findekáno was probably pushing Maitimo into at this precise moment.

Findekáno was not... _precisely_ banned from their home. But neither was he welcome, as their father had made quite clear on many occasions.

(How strange in a way Macalaurë could not describe, that Maitimo could endure their father’s rages without letting his smile falter, but on the days his father spoke harshly to Findekáno, his mood was black and foul, and none dared to be near him.)

Fëanáro made to push past him, and Macalaurë put himself between his father and the door. “What matter the letter?” he asked desperately, suddenly very glad his younger siblings had gone to their mother’s workshop for the day. “Atar--“

Fëanáro had never hit him before. His hand flashed out, and pain flared on the side of Macalaurë’s face, making him gasp and flinch. How did Maitimo endure it without a sound? The pain was enough to make Macalaurë’s head spin, to make him want to retch.

He hadn’t recovered from it, his eyes stinging and blurring, when he felt his father’s hand in his hair, hauling him back upright. “What are you hiding in the mews, Káno?” Fëanáro demanded, and suddenly Macalaurë was pressed up against the door by his father’s hard body.

“Nothing--n-nothing,” he stammered, with no hope that he would be believed.

Fëanáro’s hand tightened in his hair until his eyes watered, and Macalaurë bit down a cry. He leaned in, and for the second time in his life, Macalaurë felt his father close enough to smell his breath. His gaze was searching, too-bright and too-intent. “Where is Nelyo, Káno?”

“I don’t know,” Macalaurë lied, and saw something flicker in his father’s eyes, something he liked even less than he liked the way his father looked at Maitimo.

Fëanáro released him, and reached for the door.

“No,” Macalaurë blurted, and then that gaze was on him again.

He quailed to think of it.

But--

Maitimo had done it for him, hadn’t he?

How many times?

Surely, once would not break him. It had not broken Maitimo.

“I asked him to leave,” he said. He tried to reach for his father’s sleeve. He remembered, too well, all the things Maitimo had breathed against the desk in the study at their father’s insistence, hated that he knew what Fëanáro wanted to hear.

But his hand would not move.

Fëanáro stared at him. “Why?”

 _Say it!_ Macalaurë ordered his mouth, and ordered his hand to reach. _Say you want him for yourself, say you haven’t stopped thinking of it, say you want his eyes only on you for once, say you need him to touch you!_

It was loathsome. His mouth was meant for more beautiful words.

But the idea of Maitimo’s tranquil day being ruined by the appearance of Fëanáro in full wrath--

Fëanáro’s hand came up, and his voice was almost soft, patronizing. “Ah, Káno,” he said, and Macalaurë hated the sound of his own name in that tone. “Are you having trouble asking for what you really want?”

Macalaurë’s skin crawled. But he nodded.

“I should have known.” Fëanáro’s hands slid down to his waist, a sudden possessive grip on it making Macalaurë suck in his breath. “You’ve been thinking of it since that night, haven’t you?”

It had been awful in the study. But the idea of something like that in the foyer, when anyone could see, made panic flare in Macalaurë’s chest. “No--not here,” he amended, when darkness flashed in his father’s features. “The servants.”

Fëanáro smiled. Macalaurë wished he wouldn’t.

The study wasn’t far. Macalaurë stumbled a few times on his way, as if his feet were determined to turn away. Fëanáro’s hand was strong, clamped onto his upper arm, hauling him inside and shutting the door. Macalaurë tried not to think of cage bars closing around him, a songbird trapped with nowhere to fly.

Then Fëanáro’s hands were on him, and his face was breathless and eager and too-intent. Macalaurë’s robes hit the floor, and for the first time, he felt possessive fingertips run down his neck, up against his scalp, down the thin fabric of his tunic. “So slender,” Fëanáro murmured. “Will you sing prettily for me like this, Káno? You’ve always been less stubborn than your brother.”

For the first time, the idea came to Macalaurë that he might have made a terrible mistake, and Fëanáro might prefer him to Maitimo, and would not stop at one time.

No--that should be a good thing, shouldn’t it? Why should Maitimo have to bear this burden? Macalaurë _should_ share it with him, shouldn’t he?

But the thought made cold dread pool in his stomach, and he pulled away, overcome with fear and disgust. “No, no, I can’t, I changed my mind, I don’t want to--“

“Hush, Káno,” Fëanáro said, as if he were a small child throwing a tantrum, and gathered him up as if he weighed nothing at all. Macalaurë heard himself make a high, frightened noise, and his father ignored it, hauling him away from the door. “You’re only frightened because you aren’t used to it yet. Your brother loves it.”

 _He doesn’t_ , Macalaurë thought miserably, thinking of the twisted rictus of pain he’d seen on Maitimo’s face.

“If you’re sweeter than Nelyo, I’ll be gentle,” Fëanáro promised, a phrase that turned Macalaurë’s stomach to hear, but not as much as-- “Kneel for me.”

And Macalaurë realized for the first time, unequivocally, that he could not get away. His father was larger, stronger, and far more wrathful, even if Macalaurë was known for his swiftness. Fëanáro had a hand in his hair, and was shoving him down to his knees, the cold tile hard against them.

The bars of the cage closed.

Macalaurë took a deep, shuddering breath, and sat back on his heels.

He _was_ less stubborn than Maitimo.

He was a better liar, too.

“Good.”

Fëanáro stroked calloused fingertips over his cheek, and thumbed at his lower lip, a brushing touch that had haunted Macalaurë since the first time he’d felt it, when Maitimo had run in and yanked him away.

But Maitimo would not come through the door to save him this time, because Macalaurë had made his excuses.

No one would come through the door this time.

“Open your mouth.”

Macalaurë did. His father’s thumb thrust past his lips, pressing on his tongue, and he looked up through his eyelashes, uncertain.

Fëanáro’s gaze was unreadable, absolutely focused on his mouth. “Suck it, Káno.”

Macalaurë thought that someone like Maitimo might prefer being bent over the desk, spread apart and slapped, than the humiliation of closing his lips, sucking softly on Fëanáro’s thumb. That sounded like him. But this didn’t hurt, not yet, and Macalaurë clung to the hope that Fëanáro might keep his promise, and be gentle. Perhaps if he was a good enough actor. Fëanáro had been so insistent that Maitimo say he enjoyed it, hadn’t he? Macalaurë could do that. The lie would not hurt, like the thumb in his mouth did not hurt.

“You have a beautiful tongue,” Fëanáro said, and his voice was hitching, as if he were only barely holding himself back. His other hand tugged up his own tunic, and pushed his breeches aside.

Macalaurë thought about music.

He thought of the way his fingertips felt, plucking the strings of his harp. The touch, the tension, then the sudden release as the notes flooded through the air. He was skilled with his hands, and had the mightiest voice of any of his kin, even among the Vanyar.

None of that seemed to matter now.

He tried to think about chord progressions, instead of the hard, thick thing prodding at his lips, and sliding between them, making him choke. There was little taste, but the spongy, hard feeling of it made his gorge rise.

He fought that down. It wasn’t helpful, not now.

Fëanáro’s hands were in his hair, guiding him down. It was uncomfortable. His mouth was open too wide, his lips stretched, painfully rubbed against the skin. It was hard to breathe. Macalaurë thought about the sound of flutes, and which fingertips to move to make soft, birdlike trills.

It was Fëanáro’s panting, labored breathing that brought him back, made him realize he was still on his knees in his father’s study, with his father’s cock dragging over his tongue, and his father was muttering. “You look so pretty like this, Káno. You don’t go all red and blotchy when you cry, that’s--that’s _lovely_ , that’s a good child, do you like the taste? It looks like you do.”

Could anyone? Macalaurë wondered. But he was a better performer than Maitimo, and nodded around the thick length in his mouth. He heard Fëanáro’s breath hitch, and knew he had guessed right.

He could act this through.

His jaw ached, and his mouth felt battered when Fëanáro pulled out. He seized his opportunity before his father could choose another course of action, and wrapped his hand around the hard shaft as he’d seen Maitimo do, stroking from root to tip, looking up at Fëanáro’s face. This was not so bad. This, he could live through. If he was clever, if he was comely, perhaps this would be over quickly. He looked up through his lashes, and said, trying not to let his voice quaver, “Do you want me to sing, Atar? I could tell you how...how nice it feels.”

Fëanáro’s eyes went bright, and he nodded, stepping back until he was seated in his desk chair, legs parted. “Come sit,” he said, and held out a hand. “And I’ll tell you what to sing.”

 _See?_ Macalaurë told himself, as he got shakily to his feet. _He wasn’t lying. He’s being gentle. He isn’t hurting me._

He could still run for the door, he supposed. But his limbs felt heavy, and he did not want to be thrown against a wall, collecting bruises like Maitimo did. He moved, and let his father gather him onto his lap, as he had done long ago.

No. Not like that.

Not like that at all, really.

He reached for his father’s cock, as if it was just something he knew how to do, and started stroking. It made him less ill this time. He still couldn’t help the way he squirmed and flinched when Fëanáro reached into his leggings, big hands curling around his own cock.

He was not ready for the disappointment on his father’s face. “What’s wrong, Káno?” he asked, almost sounding concerned, but with an edge of annoyance that made Macalaurë’s nerves spike. “I thought you liked this.”

“I, I do,” Macalaurë lied, heat springing to his face. His father stroked and rubbed, and he tried to think of something that would rouse him, but everything he could think of was too precious, too secret to think of like this, to be tainted by this.

Fëanáro sighed, and his frown deepened. “Your words are prettier, but Nelyo’s body is more honest. I thought you would be a quicker study than he was.”

“I’m sorry,” Macalaurë said immediately, and his mind cast wildly around, looking for something to help, and coming up empty in panic. “I’m--I’m just nervous--“ _Please don’t be angry, please don’t hit me, please don’t hurt me--_

Fëanáro regarded him for a moment, then moved his hands, lifting Macalaurë by the hips, setting him on the edge of the desk.

“No, no, please, Atar,” Macalaurë begged, the cold wood reminding him of Maitimo’s face screwed up in pain, his long legs kicking weakly, his fingers gripping it until his knuckles went white. “Let me take it back in my mouth, I, I liked that a lot, wasn’t that--“

Fëanáro’s hand flew up, and Macalaurë went silent, his eyes wide and frightened. Fëanáro glared down at him for a moment, then relaxed, and simply stripped off his leggings without hitting him. “I was too hasty. There, now, Káno, don’t cry. I forgot, Nelyo used to need something inside of him, too.”

“He--what?”

Fëanáro dipped his fingers into that little pot he’d used that other time, and Macalaurë’s eyes pricked with hot tears. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to remember that he was acting, that he was doing a good thing. Maitimo did this for him, didn’t he? Was he not also a big brother? Would he not do the same to protect Tyelko, or Curvo, or Moryo? Of course he would.

He thought of Tyelko, grinning at him as he scaled a young tree, or tried to sneak a fat grey squirrel home into his bed. _Don’t tell Atar_ , he’d begged multiple times. He was a fair child, and Macalaurë had pretended already a dozen times that he had not seen their father’s hand linger a moment when patting his hair.

And what of Maitimo?

His father’s fingers were slick, and Macalaurë set his teeth, and stared up at the study ceiling, and the thick sturdy wooden beams holding it in place.

Maitimo was no less worthy of protection, just because he was older. He deserved a carefree day by the pool with his beloved, did he not?

Of course he did.

Fëanáro’s fingers brushed something inside of him that made him gasp. His cock started to fill, and he closed his eyes, chasing that feeling.

Fëanáro chuckled. “There. Ah, Káno, you’re so tight, it’s been so long since I’ve felt--“

“Don’t stop,” Macalaurë interrupted, sick with loathing for the end of whatever sentence Fëanáro was about to utter. He could endure this.

If it felt like that, he could enjoy it, in a physical way, he thought.

Wasn’t he clever?

He opened his eyes, and tried a sweet smile, reaching up to brush his fingertips against his father’s muscular chest. “Let me touch you,” he offered, “while you’re touching me like this, please. It feels so good.”

Whose words were they? Macalaurë felt almost proud of them, and he thought for once he understood the triumph he’d seen in Maitimo’s eyes, the last time he was in this room.

It was just like learning to gut a rabbit, he thought, in a detached sort of way. It was awful. The rabbit was cute and soft and had never hurt him, and he did not need to eat it to live. But his father and brothers had assured him that hunting was natural, and he must learn to set his blade to the heart of a living thing, and turn it inside out, and spill blood over his hands, so he had. It was awful, and then it was difficult, and then it was easy.

This was awful.

Next time, it would be difficult.

Eventually, it would be easy. He was a quick study.

Fëanáro’s fingers curled and stroked inside of him, and he let his hips twitch, his lips parting as his breath quickened.

“Greedy little slut,” Fëanáro said appreciatively, and laughed when Macalaurë’s face went pink in humiliation. “I knew you’d like this, Káno.”

Macalaurë sucked in a breath. “Yes,” he lied, and kept moving, because when his father was laughing and whispering filthy words, he wasn’t hitting him, he wasn’t hurting him or anyone else. “Feels good, Atar, I love it...”

Fëanáro let out a low, hungry growl, and Macalaurë’s hand shot out, gripping his father’s cock, stroking it again. It didn’t hurt, to take it in his hand. He lifted his voice, and recalled a verse of erotic poetry he’d heard set to song in the gardens of Tirion’s courtyard, on a long-ago lazy day with his cousins. He sang of supple curves and pounding blood, of opening and melding, and heard Fëanáro’s breath grow heavy, saw his eyes go dark, felt his cock grow hard and start to drip.

Fëanáro’s fingers thrust into him, so hard he gasped, losing the thread of the melody, and he heard his father chuckle. “Like that?”

Macalaurë nodded, feeling his cock suddenly aching, his back arching against his better judgment. “Just--like that--“

“My sweet little songbird,” Fëanáro rumbled, and thrust his fingers in again and again, making Macalaurë whimper and squirm, bucking down against the sensation. “Nelyo puts up a good front, but he likes it just as much. I knew you’d be good at this. You can blame him, for keeping you from this for so long. Just think of how often you could have felt like this by now, if he weren’t so jealous, so stubborn.”

Macalaurë’s hands faltered, but Fëanáro replaced them with his own, one hand stroking himself, the other thrusting unerringly into that spot inside of Macalaurë that made him pant and shiver. “I...I want...”

Fëanáro bent, and pressed a kiss to his temple. The spot felt too-hot, long after he pulled away. “It’s your first time, so I’ll tell you what to say,” he said, and stroked himself faster. “Tell me you want to come, Káno. Tell me you want me inside you next time, because you only feel good when you’re full, and no one else can give you what I can. Tell me you need to be fucked.”

Macalaurë let out a thready, breathy cry, trying to remember all, any of that when his world was whiting out with pleasure. His toes curled, his thighs trembling, and he fumbled for the words. “It, nnh, it feels good, I want to come, please, Atar, let me come--“

Fëanáro’s eyes blazed, and he bent, burying his face in Macalaurë’s neck, nipping and suckling at the skin there, inhaling deeply. “Such a lovely voice,” he crooned. “I must make you sing for Nelyo some time, and show him what his performance is lacking. Between your sweet mouth and this tight hole, I’m sure Nelyo would--“

“Fuck me,” Macalaurë interrupted, because he could not hear any more of that, not if he was ever going to be _himself_ again after this, and it was the only thing he could think of. “Please, Atar--I need--I need to be fucked, don’t I?”

Fëanáro’s train of thought died, and he dropped his own cock, wrapping his hand around Macalaurë’s cock, stroking it suddenly hard and fast, as his fingers plunged in and out. “So good, Káno, so good for me, that’s my songbird,” he muttered, and Macalaurë felt himself tighten, and shudder, and then he was spasming, spilling over his father’s hand and his own stomach, pleasure making his vision go blurry.

He had no time to enjoy the sensations, because he was being dragged off of the desk by his shoulders and hair, suddenly forced to kneel once more as Fëanáro’s hard cock bumped against his mouth. He was dizzy, confused, aching in strange and sickening ways, but Fëanáro didn’t seem to care. “Open your fucking mouth,” he snarled, and Macalaurë complied.

At least it didn’t take long. The taste was stronger, bitter and sour at once, and he gagged when it flooded his mouth, sticky and foul on his tongue. Fëanáro didn’t give him the option to pull out, just held him down by his hair, uncaring of his coughing and dry-heaving, until he was thoroughly spent, his semen running from the corners of Macalaurë’s mouth.

After a long, repulsive moment, he finally pulled out, and Macalaurë coughed wretchedly, eyes watering, wiping his mouth on the back of one arm. He heard his father move away, and took a long moment to pant for breath, wiping his nose and eyes, brushing his hair back from his face, praying that it was over.

“See?” Fëanáro sounded pleased. Macalaurë saw him shrugging his robes back on, then fastening his leggings again, as if this had been no more than a form of mild exercise. “If you’re sweet, I’ll be gentle. You were very sweet, my little songbird.”

This was gentleness, apparently. Macalaurë nodded, and climbed slowly to his feet, gathering up his clothes and trying to get them into some semblance of order. How did they go, again? Leggings first, he thought. Then the tunic, and then his robes. That sounded right.

Some time later, he was back in Maitimo’s room, and his harp was in his hands. Someone was saying his name, he thought. Someone wanted to speak to him, and was saying his name.

Maitimo.

Macalaurë blinked, then looked up. His harp was in his hands, and Maitimo was bending down over him, looking concerned. “Káno?” he asked, and Macalaurë stared up at him, uncomprehending.

Slowly, what he saw resolved, and he understood that Maitimo was back, his hair still damp from the river. How long had it been? Too long? Not long enough? He smiled, because Maitimo’s eyes were unclouded. “Did--“ His voice was oddly hoarse, and he frowned, and cleared his throat. “Did you have a good time, Russandol?”

Maitimo’s face was guarded now, wary, and he knelt in front of Macalaurë’s chair, hands resting on the chair’s arms. “The river was warm, and the birds sang near as sweetly as you. Finno says he owes you a present, for the gift of the day.”

It was a good day. That was good. That made it worth it, Macalaurë thought. “Good,” he said, and wasn’t sure his smile was quite right, because Maitimo was giving him a strange look. He tried to fix it, but that just made it worse, and he started to tremble. “I’m sorry,” he said, but there was nowhere to turn away, because Maitimo was looking at him, and he thought Maitimo _knew_ , and had he bathed before coming back? Had he even washed his mouth? He felt suddenly, unbearably dirty, and thought if Maitimo touched him, he might cry.

Maitimo didn’t. He sat back on his heels, looking crushed, his arms hanging limp at his sides. He swallowed, and his hands clenched helplessly, then unclenched.

Neither of them spoke for a long while. At some point, Macalaurë picked up his harp again, and plucked out a refrain. He thought he had dreamed the tune, once, before...before everything changed. That seemed a very long time ago, now.

Hours later, when the light had faded to silver, Maitimo stood in the stillness, and offered a hand. “Come on, Káno,” he said softly. “Let’s get some supper.”

“I...don’t think I could eat.” Perhaps he never would again.

Maitimo tried for one of his familiar, comforting smiles. It only touched half of his mouth, the other somewhat twisted. “You’ll manage. We don’t want the others asking, do we?”

“...No.”

“I’ll do all the talking.”

“But, but if he’s there--“

“He will act as if it’s no different from any other day. And so will we.”

 _We_.

At least he wasn’t alone.

“Can I...” Macalaurë put his harp aside, and slowly took his brother’s hand. “Can I sleep in here? After supper?”

Maitimo’s smile was back now, and he squeezed Macalaurë’s hand. “Of course.” And then he added, in a tone that Macalaurë would never forget, “I’ll sleep between you and the door.”


	3. Kiss me, just once, for luck

Macalaurë had thought, after the first time, that dealing with his father’s darker urges would become a constant of his life.

It didn’t.

Once, he felt his father’s gaze on him, sweeping down low, lingering with heat, and felt his skin prickle all over. But Maitimo was there, and said something in their father’s ear, and the two of them went off together, leaving Macalaurë weak-kneed in relief.

It was over a year before he had the courage to bring it up to Maitimo. He wasn’t proud of it, but the lure of going back to normal, of pretending none of it had ever happened, was a powerful one, and he fell victim to its charms for far too long.

Macalaurë became adept at pretending not to see certain things. He did not see, when Maitimo wore long sleeves for just two days in summer. He did not see, any time there were few of them in the house, and Maitimo slipped out of the study, adjusting his hair. He did not see, when he fell asleep in his chair in Maitimo’s room, and woke up startled at the sound of voices in the darkness arguing in a whisper, then going silent, and the door opening and closing.

When a year had passed, he offered to braid his brother’s hair before one of his performances, and Maitimo waved him away. “I think I’ll wear it down today,” he said, but the smile was _that smile_ , and Macalaurë’s stomach turned over. Without thinking, he leaned forward, brushing the hair away from Maitimo’s neck, and saw a dark bruise surrounding what looked like a bite mark.

Maitimo caught his hand, and brought it down. “Don’t.”

“Why isn’t it ever me?” Macalaurë blurted, not sure if he was saying it right, not sure if what he was feeling even made sense. “I thought...it isn’t that I want to, I just, I thought once it happened, it would keep...happening.”

“It’s good that it hasn’t,” Maitimo said firmly. “Just be content with that.”

Macalaurë gave him a suspicious look. “Are you sure he hasn’t...with any of the others?”

“I’m sure.”

“But--“

“Káno, I don’t want to talk about it,” Maitimo said, and there was a hint of sharpness in his tone. “You need to go onstage, don’t you?”

He did, and he did. And they did not speak of it again for six more years, until after the Exile, and they moved to Formenos.

His father’s temper grew legendary.

Even Tyelkormo, who had once killed a boar with nothing but his hands and a small knife, jumped when Fëanáro slammed the doors. Even the Ambarussa, who were too young to remember their father as much different, shot each other nervous glances when something went wrong in the forges, and Fëanáro’s footsteps could be heard from anywhere in the house.

Macalaurë developed a sense for knowing who was in the house with him. As long as there were at least three of them in the house, everything would be fine. Their father never took Maitimo aside for special lessons, or cornered him at night, when there were more of them home.

He woke up one day, and stared at the ceiling, foresight prickling horribly through him. He rarely had it in any useful way--only vague, terrible feelings, right before something bad came true.

He heard his brothers, talking excitedly out a hunt, running out for the woods. He was supposed to go with them, but he’d slept too long, and they’d apparently gone without him.

Something thudded downstairs. Macalaurë flinched at the sound, then worse when he heard a sudden sharp cry.

Macalaurë’s blood ran cold.

He didn’t have to go downstairs.

But it was one thing to know afterwards that something bad had happened, and he had done nothing, and another to know that it was happening downstairs, and he was sitting in bed. Had his father planned this, knowing the rest of them would be out hunting? Or had it been an accident?

Another thump. Macalaurë’s hands fisted in his robes.

Was he a coward? Or was he a good brother?

Maitimo would do it for him. Maitimo wouldn’t wait, he knew that. Maitimo had done exactly that, bursting into the study so long ago, and...

(Sometimes when he thought too much about that night, or the other night, he found himself back in his chair, his harp in his hands, and it was far later than it had been before.)

Slowly, he forced himself to stand. That was the hardest part. After that, he tied back his hair, and walked downstairs, trying not to look at the large door to the room his father used as a study in Formenos. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there was another reason, something else happening inside.

His hand trembled on the door’s latch. What _had_ Maitimo been doing, to keep his father’s eye off of Macalaurë and the others for so long? Was it fair, that he would have to know?

Was it fair that he didn’t already?

He pushed open the door, and very nearly ran back out.

Fëanáro was sitting in his desk chair. Maitimo was nude, straddling him, his head thrown back, red hair spilling down to his waist. He was moaning, undulating, his hands running up and down Fëanáro’s chest. He was raising up and down, riding his father’s thick cock, sweat gleaming on his shoulders. Macalaurë stared, his voice gone mute, as he heard Maitimo murmuring, “Like that, just like that, _please_ , Atar, fuck me hard, you-- _nnh_ \--you know I can’t _think_ if you’re not filling me--“

Fëanáro’s hands were gripping Maitimo’s hips, yanking him down onto every thrust. “That’s it, just like that--go on, show me how much you like it. What else, Nelyo?”

Macalaurë saw his brother bite his lip, but there was no hesitation this time, no shy, humiliated flinch. “It’s not enough,” he said immediately, and moaned again, his hands sliding up to tangle in Fëanáro’s hair. “I need more, you _know_ I do.”

“What else do you need, Nelyo?” That voice, sweetly patronizing.

“M-more,” Maitimo breathed, and rocked down urgently. “I need--more, more cock in me.”

“Kanafinwë?”

Macalaurë thought they were talking about him, and froze--

But no.

Maitimo nodded, his face as red as his hair, and let out a shuddering sigh. “I need him to fuck my mouth, Atar, _please_ , you know I need it harder than this if I’m going to come--“

“Turcafinwë?”

“Yes, yes, him too, all of them--“

“Curufinwë?”

“Him and Morifinwë at once, _please_ , harder, _please_ \--“

“Should we all finish in you at once, Nelyo?”

“Y-yes, please, _yes_ , I want--“ Maitimo swallowed hard, face scrunched up for a moment as he wrestled with himself, then panted, “I want you all--in my mouth--coming in me until I throw up, please, _please_ let me come, haven’t I been good?”

Suddenly, silence.

Macalaurë’s eyes ripped from his brother’s flushed face to his father, who--

Was staring right at him.

It took a few more desperate thrusts downwards for Maitimo to notice his father had gone still. Grey eyes cleared of their haze, and Maitimo turned, following Fëanáro’s gaze, filling slowly with horror. “Atar-- _no_ \--“

“Shut up, Nelyo,” Fëanáro muttered, and lifted Maitimo off of his cock, making him cry out with the suddenness of it as Fëanáro stood. “Weren’t you just saying how much you--“

“That’s not what--Káno, don’t listen, _please_ \--“

Maitimo wasn’t supposed to sound like that, Macalaurë thought in a strange, detached way. He wasn’t supposed to sound like he was begging. He was a proud prince, after all, tall and strong and clever, and never backed down from a fight.

Clarity came to him, and he knew, down to his bones, that there was no way he could leave now. Maybe he could make it easier for Maitimo, by being here. “It’s all right,” he said, and found his voice surprisingly steady. “It’s fine, isn’t it?” It wasn’t, would never be fine, but maybe if Maitimo knew he could be honest with at least Macalaurë, didn’t have to hide what was happening from at least one of them, it would give him some ease to the shadows that had been growing in his eyes for years.

Fëanáro grabbed his wrist, pulling him close, and kissed him. It was nothing like Macalaurë had thought kissing would be like. It was hard and hot and wet, and had more of tongues and teeth than lips. Macalaurë did not flinch, and endured it, until Fëanáro pulled away, his eyes hot and bright. “I knew you’d come back,” he breathed. “You couldn’t stay away forever.”

“I--no,” Macalaurë said helplessly, and looked over his father’s shoulder to Maitimo, who looked defeated, humiliated, and would not meet his eyes.

“Did you hear him?” Fëanáro asked, and the words were eager and quick, the way he got when he was working on a new project. His hands moved fast, stripping Macalaurë’s clothes, leaving him feeling very small next to the two of them. “He’s being so much more honest these days, don’t you think? Don’t worry about him, it’s your turn now.”

Maitimo opened his mouth, lurching forward, but Macalaurë caught him by the shoulders, his own eyes burning. “It’s fine,” he said softly, and squeezed hard. “You don’t...you don’t have to. Not for me. Not anymore.”

Fëanáro’s hands were on him then, and Macalaurë saw Maitimo’s eyes fill with tears at the sight. Why? It could not hurt more than what he’d already been doing, could it?

Fëanáro’s mouth was on his ear now, and his hands were turning him around, pushing him against Maitimo’s bare chest. “Pretty Káno, look how sweet you look between us like this. Do you want Nelyo’s mouth?”

Maitimo closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Macalaurë’s. “Do you?” he asked, in a very different tone than he’d been using before.

“Tell him how much you’d like that, Nelyo.”

Fëanáro’s hands were on his neck, sliding down to his chest, rubbing intimately over his nipples, down to tease at his still-soft cock.

 _I’m sorry_ , Maitimo said silently.

 _I know_ , Macalaurë assured him, and grabbed his hand, squeezing. He’d known, on some level, what he was getting himself into by coming downstairs. Somehow it _did_ feel better to be a part of it, no matter how horrible, than to let Maitimo suffer it alone in silence, protecting the rest of them at his own expense.

“Hurry up, Nelyo.”

Maitimo squeezed his hand back, and took a deep breath. “I...I want your cock, Káno. Let me suck it, please.” He leaned in, hands gentle on Macalaurë’s, and bent, letting their lips brush across each other.

“Oh,” Fëanáro murmured, wickedly amused. “Nelyo, he liked that, look how hard he is. Aren’t you seductive, after all that practice? He’s been so determined to have me all to himself,” he said, his tone confidential in Macalaurë’s ear. “Ever since you and I had that little tryst, he’s been insatiable.”

Maitimo dropped to his knees, looking up at him through long auburn lashes. Firelight flickered on his hair and skin, making everything seem strange and unrealistic. How else could he explain how hard his cock was growing, with his father’s hands on his hips and his brother leaning in to mouth hungrily at his cock?

“Russandol,” he whispered, and felt heat prickle all through him.

“Tell him he’s doing a good job,” Fëanáro said in his ear. “Pull his hair. He loves it when you treat him like the harlot he is.”

Why did it have to be like this? Why did it have to be with his father’s biting words and merciless hands? Macalaurë’s hands threaded through soft red tresses, and he said softly, “That’s--“

Maitimo’s tongue swiped over the head of his cock, and Macalaurë let out a broken groan, his hips snapping forward without him meaning to. “Good,” he gasped out, and his hands curled, desperate and hungry for more of that sweet wet heat.

Maitimo’s mouth was a pleasure like nothing he’d ever experienced. Macalaurë shuddered, lurching forward, his hips rutting helplessly, shoving his cock further down his brother’s throat. Guilt wracked him; he had come to help, hadn’t he? And here he was, letting Maitimo suck his cock and plead for more, taking all of the burden on himself, as usual.

But the guilt did not stop it from feeling _wonderful_.

Suddenly, his father’s slick fingers slid down the cleft of his buttocks, as they had years earlier, and his arousal dampened at once, replaced by nerves. This _hadn’t_ hurt last time, he reminded himself. In fact, it had felt almost good, in a way he had harshly avoided thinking about ever since.

“He’s so tight, Nelyo,” Fëanáro said, his fingers shoving in, then twisting deep. “I didn’t take this sweet hole last time, his mouth was too delicious. Shall we share him? You take his mouth this time?”

“No,” Maitimo said immediately, pulling off of his cock. “No, Atar, not like that.”

Fëanáro let out a low, dark little laugh, and spread his fingers apart, making Macalaurë gasp. “You wouldn’t say that if you could feel this. Put your fingers in here, see what I mean.”

“But--“

Macalaurë knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Fëanáro’s hands turned ruthless again, and Macalaurë found himself suddenly facedown over the desk, his legs dangling, toes not touching the floor. “So _tender_ when it suits you, Nelyo. I was being generous. You can watch while I enjoy him, then. Remember how loud you were, your first time?”

“Wait, no--“

“I thought you were over this rebellious streak.” Fëanáro sounded disappointed, his voice turned bitter. “You’ve been so honest recently, and now--“

“Let me have him.”

Macalaurë felt his cock jump, and bit his lip, hoping neither of them had seen.

“You think you deserve that? Why?”

Macalaurë couldn’t see what was happening, but heard a sudden wet, sloppy sound, followed by a low, muffled groan.

“Please, Atar,” came his brother’s voice, less pleading and more in the voice he’d used when Macalaurë first entered the room, the throaty, seductive one that made Macalaurë’s chest feel hot and tight. “Weren’t you saying I’ve been good? Don’t I deserve to be spoiled?”

Macalaurë held his breath, hearing them discuss who would be the one to take him. His cock was still hard, probably because he could not stop thinking of Maitimo’s mouth on him, and his fingers dug into the edge of the desk.

“You can certainly be sweet, when you want to, can’t you? Let’s ask him.” Fëanáro moved to take Macalaurë’s face in his hands, tilting it up, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Your brother is being so passionate about how much he wants you, Káno. What about you? Tell us what you want. Do you want me inside of you? Or Nelyo?”

Maitimo had done it for him, had abased himself on his knees. Macalaurë wasn’t sure what the difference would be, save that Maitimo’s cock looked larger even than Fëanáro’s, but if Maitimo thought it was the right idea...

“I want him.” His voice came out lower and breathier than he thought it could, and he turned his head, meeting Maitimo’s eyes. As long as he was only looking at Maitimo, he could pretend--

Pretend what? As if it was better, to think about letting his brother take him if they were alone together? Maitimo would be sick at the thought.

But it was all they had, now, wasn’t it?

Maitimo’s face was unreadable. The firelight made his hair ripple in waves of orange and red, and he leaned in, covering Macalaurë’s body with his own. Macalaurë hadn’t even realized he felt cold, until the searing heat of his brother sealed against his own, warming him immediately.

Maitimo’s mouth on his stole his thoughts, made him forget, made the world slide away.

Until Fëanáro sighed, and grabbed Maitimo by the hair, pulling him up. “Get on with it, then,” he snapped. “What do you think, Nelyo? Will he be desperate for it, like you are? Or will he scream, like you used to?”

Maitimo stood frozen for a moment, conflicting emotions on his face. Fëanáro moved, and Maitimo flinched, reaching out to dip his fingers into the oil. He moved swiftly, and Macalaurë suddenly knew that his fingers were _long_ , sliding more deeply inside of him than his father’s had, making his mouth drop open. “Nnh-- _Russandol_ \--“

Fëanáro’s hand was in his hair, carding through the dark strands, brushing it back from his face. “Hurry, Nelyo,” he murmured. “Seeing his face...I can only wait so long.”

“Atar, I want you,” Maitimo suddenly said, even as his fingers twisted and spread, as if he was doing his best in a short amount of time. “Why don’t you come take me, while I take him?”

Fëanáro sneered. “You sound like a statesman. I can have you whenever I want. Now _fuck him_ , or I will.”

Maitimo hesitated again, about to say something, and Fëanáro’s hand shot out, slapping Macalaurë swiftly across the face, making him yelp, his eyes water with the pain. “You’re so tolerant to the way I take you in hand, but it’s all new to him, isn’t it?”

Maitimo’s fingers curled helplessly against his sides. “Just give me a moment,” he muttered, and rubbed himself slowly against the back of Macalaurë’s thigh. He wasn’t hard, not quite, and a sudden spike of fear shot through Macalaurë, at the idea that he might not be able, and he’d have his father to contend with instead.

“Russandol,” he whispered, suddenly desperate. “I want you in me. Please, I--“ _What can I say?_ he asked, terrified. _Please, Russandol, I don’t want him!_

Something in Maitimo’s face hardened, and he nodded. _Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Káno, it’s going to hurt--_

_I don’t care, I just don’t want him!_

Maitimo bent, pressing a kiss to the back of his shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, and even through all of it, he was still Macalaurë’s kind, protective older brother.

Then something hard and thick, something that felt absolutely massive, was stretching him open, stuffing him full, and his eyes flew open wide. Pain lanced through him, his toes curling, cock gone thoroughly soft as he squirmed.

“Relax,” Maitimo whispered, and paused, but then Fëanáro slapped Macalaurë’s face again, making him cry out.

“Is he tighter when I do that?” Fëanáro asked, as if he were giving Maitimo a great gift. “You always are, when I treat you roughly.”

“He feels the same,” Maitimo said harshly, and leaned forward, sliding more of his cock into Macalaurë, making him squeak with every effort to breathe. “I’m--honestly, Atar, I’m just trying to get it _in_ , it’s his first time, by the stars.”

Fëanáro’s face changed, and he reached up, stroking Maitimo’s cheek. “This is how much I love you, Nelyo. That you get this present.”

Macalaurë shuddered, trying to breathe. He remembered thinking it would be easier to bear physical pain for Maitimo, and finally understood why. It gave him something to focus on, something to ground him, a way to forget how _wrong_ this all was.

“Easy, easy. There you are, it’s--that’s nearly half--“

Macalaurë heard the half-hysterical laugh well up inside of him, not sure if it was because Maitimo was talking to him like he was a skittish horse, or because _nearly half_ meant there was twice as much as what was currently making his eyes cross, making him writhe in discomfort.

Somehow, he bore it. There was the oil, at least, making it slick when Maitimo forced his cock inside, even if it was far too much, enough that Macalaurë seriously thought he might vomit as his organs tried to rearrange themselves to make room.

Vaguely, he remembered that his father’s fingers had touched something sweet and secret inside of him, dragging pleasure out of the strange sensations. He longed for that now, but it felt elusive, as if nothing in his body could function properly when he was so full.

Maitimo paused, and Macalaurë prayed that it was because he was fully-seated at last. He remembered seeing Maitimo bouncing on Fëanáro’s thick cock before, and could not imagine being able to _move_ with something like this inside of him, let alone speak. “All right?” Maitimo asked softly.

“No,” Macalaurë replied, his voice wet with tears. “But--yes.”

He felt it, when Maitimo’s cock started to soften, and knew his tears were the cause.

No.

 _No_.

He sucked in a shuddering breath, then shoved at the desk, trying to push back. “Come on, Russandol,” he said, and fumbled for the words he had heard, hoping they had any effect on Maitimo the way they did on his father. He had to try _something_ , could not risk his father hurting him when he and Maitimo had sacrificed so much.

“Do...do you like being inside me, Russandol?” he asked, and it sounded like someone else’s voice. “I, ah...I need it, you know--I need you in me, I, I need it hard.”

He heard Fëanáro suck in a breath. “The songbird _does_ know how to sing,” his father said, low and dark. “Listen to him, Nelyo. He might love cock almost as much as you do. Go on, give it to him, make this bitch purr.”

“Atar--“

Fëanáro slapped Macalaurë again, and his cheeks were already so sore and inflamed, he could not help but sob. “Russandol, _please_ ,” he begged, burying his face in the desk. “Just--fuck me, _fuck me_ \--“

Maitimo suddenly thrust in hard, and Macalaurë cried out, then bit his lip, not wanting to stop him. Surely, if it felt good to Maitimo, it would be over faster, and they could start pretending it had never happened.

Ruthlessly, he stamped out that tiny voice in his mind that said he did not want to forget this moment, his brother’s thick cock working inside him over and over, setting his body afire.

Maitimo pressed a kiss to his shoulder again, and when he leaned forward, he rocked against something deep inside, and something broke in Macalaurë’s mind. His forehead thudded against the desk, and he whispered, “Please,” again, and again, and again, the words bleeding together.

There was something wrong about it all, he thought, but Maitimo was touching him so intently, dragging heat out of the molten core inside of him. He heard himself moaning, and suddenly decided that Maitimo was perhaps only a _little_ too big.

“That’s it, Káno,” Maitimo said softly, against his ear. “There you go, isn’t that nice? Just focus on how it feels. Me inside you, isn’t--it’s all right, isn’t it?”

Macalaurë nodded, panting shallowly against the hard wood beneath his face. “It’s all right, it’s--it’s all right, it’s good, it feels _good_ \--“

“... _There_.” Fëanáro sounded satisfied, and Macalaurë closed his eyes. He would _not_ look at his father. If he did not look, it could be just the two of them, going a bit mad together. Maybe they’d been bathing together, and Maitimo had been so beautiful, his freckled skin catching Laurelin’s golden light, and maybe he had been brave, and maybe they had kissed long and slow while the Trees mingled. Maybe Maitimo had teased him and pulled his braid and laid him bare on the banks of the river, and they had...

 _But wouldn’t Findekáno be there?_ he suddenly thought, and guilt was like a cold wind across his face, dampening some of the pleasure starting to build in his core.

As if he’d heard the thought, Maitimo’s fingers curled on his hips, and he thrust in harder, and harder, until all thoughts had fled from Macalaurë’s mind except the huge cock rocking into him at an angle that made him see stars behind his eyelids.

One of Maitimo’s hands slid around to stroke his cock. Macalaurë kind of wanted to smack it away, but it was just too difficult to focus on anything that wasn’t Maitimo inside of him. The sensation of being taken was so strange, so unlike anything he’d felt before, that having his cock stroked was almost distracting.

“That’s enough,” Fëanáro said, and Macalaurë could have screamed. “You’re boring like this, Nelyo. Get on the desk next to him.”

Fear seized Macalaurë. “No,” he protested, turning to look up.

Then Maitimo’s hand was in his hair, and his mind was suddenly _full_. Maitimo was in his mind, far more intrusive than he ever had been. This was no soft brush of a thought, sent carefully to avoid being heard. This was a full glimpse into Maitimo’s thoughts and feelings, shared with the express purpose of making him come as fast as possible. _Feel how good you feel inside? How hot and tight you are around me? Quick, Káno, spill for me, it’s always better afterwards, I swear--_

And then he shared something--a bright, hot burst of pleasure, a memory of being fucked sore and aching, over and over again, humiliated by his own arousal but spilling nonetheless, being forced to come with Macalaurë’s name on his tongue.

“Nelyo,” Fëanáro said warningly, but Maitimo ignored him, and ground deliberately against that spot that made Macalaurë turn to jelly, showing him the memory over and over again, stroking his cock as fast as his hand could move, until Macalaurë finally cried out. He went boneless, shuddering and sobbing, pleasure wracking his body until he slumped down, feeling utterly spent.

Macalaurë drifted. Then he shouted, as Maitimo pulled out of him far too harshly. Macalaurë blinked slowly, trying to get his eyes to focus, hearing a few sharp, hard sounds of impact, hearing Maitimo grunt. “You knew what I had in mind, Nelyo! I let you have him first, and this is what you do? I thought you were getting more _obedient_ \--“

“Sorry, Atar,” Maitimo said, and his voice was back to being that odd, toneless thing Macalaurë had heard before, the one that made his skin crawl.

“You think you can just ruin my plans?” Fëanáro demanded, and Macalaurë tried to focus, tried to haul himself up from the desk, but his legs felt like wet strips of cloth, his whole body useless and aching, still sparking with the aftershocks of pleasure and pain. “You think this is funny?”

“No, Atar.”

There was another sound of impact, and at that one, he heard Maitimo let out a tiny, bitten-back sound. “Stop talking back. What am I to do with you?”

“Whatever you want.”

Maitimo sounded tired. Macalaurë couldn’t blame him. But it wasn’t what Fëanáro wanted to hear. Macalaurë managed to turn over, just in time to see Fëanáro grab Maitimo by the face, dragging him close, even as Maitimo fell to his knees. “We had an arrangement.”

“And you broke it.”

“He _asked_ to partake! Look at him, the slut begged for it.”

Maitimo shot a fierce, despairing look over at Macalaurë, and swallowed. “Fine,” he said, and blinked hard. “Fine. It’s fine, it’s--we can continue.”

Fëanáro exhaled slowly, and released Maitimo, folding his arms across his chest. “I’ll think on it. Perhaps I’ve had all I want of your charms, Nelyo. I think Kanafinwë might suit me better now. He seems more genuine when he asks for it.”

“No--I’m genuine,” Maitimo protested, and Macalaurë thought that saying it was costing him something. “Of course I want you, Atar. After so long, you cannot doubt that, can you?”

“I do, or you would be more obedient! Perhaps Turcafinwë--“

“No, no, it’s--it has to be me.” Macalaurë heard the way his voice frayed, hysterical around the edges. Something had changed, made it more difficult for Maitimo to do what he felt he must, and Macalaurë knew that somehow, it was his fault.

He levered himself slowly off the desk, and made his way shakily to where Maitimo knelt on the floor. “Atar, can Nelyo take me to bed?” he asked, and knew well how to play up the overwrought, worn out, pathetic way he felt, looking smaller and weaker than he was. “I’m sore, and so tired.”

Fëanáro stared at him for a moment, and Macalaurë waited. With his father, there was never any way to tell what was coming next. He could be struck, or scolded, or dismissed out of hand, or even praised for speaking his mind, depending on his father’s mercurial moods. “Fine,” he finally snapped. “Make yourself useful, Nelyo. I can’t say you’re good for anything else right now.”

Maitimo stood, and swept Macalaurë into his arms immediately, heading for the door without care that they were both still bare.

“Nelyo.”

Maitimo waited, hand on the latch.

“Come back when you’re done. We aren’t finished.”

This close together, Macalaurë felt his brother tremble. But it didn’t show on his face, and he nodded.

Maitimo took him to the baths, and set him gently in the water, stroking his hair sympathetically as Macalaurë hissed in a breath. “Stings,” he muttered. “But--it’s fine.”

“I’m--“

“Don’t. Don’t say you’re sorry.” Macalaurë heard his voice come out raw, and he turned, glaring up at his brother. “Don’t you dare. I know--I know I made that worse for you. I didn’t have to come in.”

“Then why?” Maitimo demanded, and the hollow distance in his tone was gone, replaced by barely-contained fury, panic, and dismay. “Why, Káno? It was fine, I had it under control! Now he--he’ll be greedy, and he’ll want _more_ from me, and I haven’t anything else to give him!”

“Because it isn’t fair that you had to be alone in that!” Macalaurë thought he might be shouting. Or perhaps he was crying. It was difficult to tell the difference. “How long, Russandol? How long?”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“Tell me! After--“ He shouldn’t. But if it would help-- “After what we just did, I want to know!”

Maitimo turned away. His shoulders drew together with tension. “I don’t know. Nineteen, twenty years. Since--“

“Since I was born?” Macalaurë’s voice was aghast. “Really?”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“It does to me!”

“Why?”

“Is it not enough that I love you?” Macalaurë’s voice broke, and he scrubbed at his face, pretending the moisture was water. “That I don’t want you hurting, alone? You aren’t the only one who loves his brothers, Russandol!”

“And now, I’m not the only one forced to think about my brothers as I never should,” Maitimo said bitterly. “Do you feel better for the knowledge, Káno? Knowing what I see when I close my eyes?”

“No,” Macalaurë said bluntly. “And I do not think anyone could. But I would not un-know it. I...perhaps we could talk to Grandfather,” he suggested desperately. “Only tell him that Father has struck us.”

“His beloved son, whom we followed willingly into Exile?” Maitimo asked, and his mouth twisted. “If any did believe us, even Grandfather, they would call us cowards and fools for staying with him. I am no child, to be led astray or pardoned for youth. I reached my majority long, long ago.”

And Macalaurë understood, very suddenly, that Maitimo had not come into exile for love of their father, but for him, and his brothers, to throw himself between them, as he ever had.

He was quiet for long minutes, letting the warmth of the water wash over him. “What,” he asked finally, “shall we do now?”

Maitimo gave him a bleak look. “I will go back in. He told me not to tarry.”

“You can’t. He’ll--“

“He’ll do nothing he hasn’t already done to me a thousand times. You must know...at least that, by now. Don’t worry. He won’t permanently damage me.”

“You don’t think yourself permanently damaged?”

Maitimo gave him the ghost of a smile. “It--“

“Don’t say it doesn’t matter,” Macalaurë warned. “If you do, I will tell Findekáno what our father does to--“

Maitimo was suddenly upon him, grabbing him so hard he lifted Macalaurë out of the water, shaking him hard enough to cause waves. “Don’t even _joke_ about it,” he said, and his face was white with stark terror. “Ever! Valar, do you want to get him killed? You _know_ what he would do!”

Macalaurë felt dumb, and let himself be shaken. He deserved it, he supposed, and thought he could see the image of his cheerful cousin in Maitimo’s eyes, as he threw himself at Fëanáro, and was slaughtered. “I won’t. I--I won’t. I’m sorry.”

Maitimo let go of him, and had to turn away, catching his breath. He hauled himself out of the bath, and scrubbed his face almost violently with a towel, before wrapping himself in one of the fine cloth robes set beside the bath for those that did not wish to damage the garments they had come in. “You...you also reached your majority long ago,” he finally said. “I cannot stop you, if...if you wander in again. I’ll do what I can to keep his eye fixed upon me, but...” His shoulders raised, unsure of what else to say. “After today, I may find it more difficult to keep him away from you.”

Macalaurë nodded.

“If--“ Maitimo sucked in a breath, and his cheeks colored. “If he does, and I am not home. I can tell you how to make it...easier, with him. Make him...” He swallowed hard. “Faster, if not gentler.”

Macalaurë hesitated, but nodded again.

“There are words you can say, positions that...that he likes, that will make it....And--if I should find you with him,” Maitimo said, as if forcing himself to do so, “would...I mean, if I came to your side, he might force us to...again, like today. Would you...that is, would...”

“I would rather have you,” Macalaurë said, and saw a tiny knot of fear unclench in Maitimo’s shoulders. “No matter what. I would have you there. And you?”

“...Sometimes I would rather be alone with him,” Maitimo said, very slowly. “To spare myself the shame.”

“And others?”

“...Aye,” Maitimo admitted, after a long pause. “Others, I...would take comfort in your presence.”

“Then reach for me with your thoughts,” Macalaurë said simply. “I will come.”

Maitimo nodded. “Not tonight. I know not what he will want from me tonight, but I did defy him.”

“Why that memory?” Macalaurë asked without thinking. “Of all...” He waved a hand, encompassing the world.

Maitimo gave him a short, sharp laugh, and turned away. “You think I have many memories of pleasure that are easy to see?”

“I just, I thought perhaps Findekáno--“

“No. Not...no. Perhaps someday. When Exile is through, mayhap.”

Macalaurë summoned a smile, and thought it might be a tad querulous. “I hardly think Atar could object to you two being close of kin, at least.”

Maitimo snorted, and for a moment, sounded like his old self. “Aye, perhaps not.” He looked towards the house, and squared his shoulders. “Rest well tonight,”

“Russandol?”

“Mm?”

“Come to my room tonight. You can sleep with me.”

Maitimo gave him an odd look. “Am I not your elder?”

“Nonetheless. Come to my room tonight.” Macalaurë gave him a real smile, and sank down into the water. “And I will sleep between you and the door.”

**Author's Note:**

> [I now have a blog for requests.](https://hrunting-license.tumblr.com/)


End file.
